


tell it anyway

by andibeth82



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ghosts, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Self-Reflection, What do you do with regret?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:28:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24405814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: Clint is used to fixing things -- his house, his children’s toys, his past mistakes. He’s never encountered a problem he couldn’t handle.But he has no idea how to fix something like this.[Or: grief and guilt take many different roads, and healing doesn't happen overnight.]
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Laura Barton
Comments: 16
Kudos: 36





	tell it anyway

**Author's Note:**

> Am I still writing angsty post-Endgame fic one year later? Of course I am. Anyway, I actually started this fic over a year ago when the Endgame trailer came out and all we knew was that everyone but certain characters had been snapped. I lost steam on it and decided to pick it up again when an idea struck me about how to write it in a way that actually made sense, now that the movie was out. (Everything is canon-compliant, but feelings are feelings.)
> 
> _tell it anyway  
>  little words can mean life or death sometimes._  
> 

In Clint’s mind, there are two stages: _before_ and _after_.

 _Before_ is sunshine and green grass and things that seemed dire at the time but really weren’t -- aliens coming down from the sky, SHIELD becoming compromised, helicarriers falling into the water, cities falling from heaven. _Before_ was waking up at five in the morning because Lila couldn’t sleep, getting interrupted at dinner because Cooper needed to show off his latest artistic endeavors, smiling as Laura cooked his favorite meal, calling Natasha and boasting about his newest home improvement project -- scarred fingers and arms full of retired life harboring more proud war wounds than any of his Avengers injuries.

That was before.

 _After_ is waking up in the middle of the night because he needs to make sure Laura is next to him and that his children are still in their rooms, untouched and unharmed and alive. _After_ is rushing home from errands because he forgot he hasn’t said _I love you_ to anyone before he left and there’s no way that he’s ever making that mistake again. _After_ is losing his train of thought because he’s eating and he can’t stop wondering if being dead but not _really_ dead means you can survive without the essential items like food and water. In that show _The Good Place_ they were all technically dead but ate frozen yogurt, right? So really, it’s not out of the question for --

“Clint?”

He jumps at the touch on his shoulder, turning to meet Laura’s frown.

“Sorry,” he apologizes as he takes a long breath. “Just --”

“Thinking?” There’s a small bite to Laura’s voice, and Clint winces.

“I can’t help it.”

Laura looks down at the vegetables she’s been chopping and scoops some sliced red peppers into a plastic bowl. “Okay,” she says, wiping her hands on her jeans. “How can I help?”

 _That’s the problem_ , Clint thinks as he stares at his wife, trying not to scream. How _could_ she help? Nothing was technically _wrong_. His wife disappeared, then came back. His kids disappeared, then came back. To him, the time without them was long and terrible and agonizing and life-changing. To them, they might as well have fallen asleep like it was any normal night and woken up the next morning, save for five years gone and the emergence of a suddenly overprotective husband and dad who was always on the verge of breaking down over things like smiles and kisses and laughs.

And Natasha is dead.

“I don’t know,” he says, leaning against the counter. “I mean, I _know_. But I don’t. I just worry that something’s gonna happen. I’m always worried something’s gonna happen. Sometimes I need to figure out a way to remind myself that you’re still here.”

“I _am_ still here,” Laura replies, grabbing a dish towel and attempting to clean up some of the mess on the cutting board.

“I _know_ you are.” Clint tries not to match her tone, because this is far from the first time they’ve had this conversation. “But for awhile, you weren’t. And maybe it felt like five seconds to you and you don’t remember anything, but it was five _years_ for me, Laura!”

 _And Natasha is dead_ , but that’s something they haven’t actually touched because neither of them can talk about it without getting emotional.

Laura looks down at the floor, then back up at her husband. Clint can see the hurt in her eyes, the waffling agony of wanting to say something that will fix this in two seconds while knowing she has nothing left to give him.

“Tell the kids dinner will be ready soon,” she says quietly as she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “And see if Nathaniel’s woken up from his nap yet.”

Clint shoves his hand in his pocket while Laura walks past him to get silverware from the kitchen drawer. He looks around the house, noticing the wall he’s just finished painting. He realizes he barely remembers what it looked like before he voluntarily changed the color and he’d only painted it two days ago.

Lots of things were like that, lately.

***

“I met someone.”

“Good for you,” Natasha answers. She continues to clean another part of her glock, her fingers flying fast. “I hope you behaved yourself.”

“Erm.” Clint scrunches up his nose as Natasha looks up with an arched brow, her features settling first into a look of judgement, then resignation.

“You _are_ aware that you’re worse than a college kid who can’t keep it in his pants.”

“I can keep it in my pants just fine,” Clint defends quickly. “I haven’t tried to sleep with _you_ yet.”

Natasha opens her mouth and promptly closes it. “That’s besides the point,” she says after a moment, waving off his words with her free hand. “You know it would never work out.”

Years later, time travel and aliens and space battles between them, Clint will lie in bed with Laura sleeping next to him while three kids sleep down the hall. He’ll start to wonder how things would’ve been different if he’d followed up on the many thoughts he’d had about fucking Natasha in his bedroom, in the SHIELD break room, in the middle of a deserted cornfield during a boring car ride to the farm.

He hadn’t pursued any of those thoughts because he was Clint Barton, and he had met Laura, and he had gotten married, and he couldn’t be unfaithful and deprive his children of a loyal parent. Now, he wishes he would have at least gone for it, because fuck the loyalty and fuck trying to be a good person.

And Natasha is dead.

***

The first time he sees her, he’s on his hands and knees pulling weeds under the hot summer sun. He sees her as if he’s really there -- imaginary Natasha, fresh out of the shower, droplets of water dotting her forehead and bright red hair spiraling over the curve of her shoulder. Her silk robe is loosened around the middle, allowing the fabric to dip between her cleavage.

_You’re a sight for sore eyes. You sure you didn’t fall off that cliff too?_

Clint considers what to say, if he should go along with what is obviously his brain playing tricks on him or if he should ignore her altogether.

“It’s not that bad,” he says, deciding to engage because ghost or no ghost, he likes having Natasha there. It feels normal. It feels better.

Natasha snorts. _It’s pretty bad, Clint._

“Okay, so what?” He sits up and crosses his arms, staring into the distance. “What do you want me to do?”

Natasha sighs, rolling her eyes. _I want you to at least acknowledge you’re having trouble._ She plops down on the grass, robe and all, nearly exposing her entire chest with the motion. He has to stop himself from visibly reacting because there’s a part of his mind that knows he’s talking to thin air.

_Still._

Clint had touched Natasha. He’d touched her dozens of times, far too many to count. But he spent a lot of time wondering what his hands would feel like on her body when he was _really_ touching her. His fingers grasp at stubborn weeds, coarse skin numb and aching with regret, and everything hurts.

And Natasha is dead.

“I think I’m doing just fine.”

_Oh, bullshit. You’re not doing just fine, Barton, and everyone knows it. Get your head out of your ass._

He smiles at imaginary Natasha, because the only time she calls him _Barton_ is when she’s absolutely fed up with him. He knows he’s being stubborn and that he deserves a well-placed kick in the shin or maybe a sparring practice where he gets his ass kicked. At this point, he thinks he’d welcome the pain.

Clint will continue smiling until something -- a bird, the wind, Cooper yelling from inside the house -- will pull him out of his daydream. And it’ll hit him that he’s talking to the air, that he’s talking to a goddamn stone that acts as a makeshift grave because Lila had insisted they bury Auntie Nat somehow when Clint explained he couldn’t bring her home.

***

“Daddy.”

Clint turns and looks down at Lila, meeting his daughter’s frown. Half of her braided hair has come undone and she looks unkempt in a way he knows that Laura would absolutely chastise him for. But Laura’s been shopping for two hours already, and he was supposed to make sure his kids were dressed and not looking like they rolled out of bed. He was supposed to make lunch. And if he had time, he was supposed to help clean up the living room.

“Daddy, my sandwich is ready.”

Clint re-focuses his gaze, realizing he’s been looking at the wall and not paying attention to the microwave, which has been dark for some time. He shakes his head and moves towards the kitchen counter.

“One grilled cheese with extra _extra_ cheese coming up,” he announces, trying to channel his voice into something resembling cheerfulness. The microwave door pops open when he hits the big silver button and Clint removes the plate, passing it over.

Lila makes a face and Clint sighs as he wipes his hand on his pants, because he knows she’s not going to say anything on her own.

“What’s wrong?”

Lila gives him a guilty look. “It’s just...Auntie Nat used to make it on the stove,” she says finally. “The cheese tastes better that way.”

Right. Shit. He should know that. Grilled cheese was the first thing that Natasha had made when she visited the farm. The meal had been a peace offering of sorts, a token of friendship for Laura in the form of _so yeah, I know you guys are probably going to get married and have your own life but I thought you should know that yes, I’ve seen your husband naked and yes, I’ve kissed him but I haven’t slept with him yet so take that as you will._

“Daddy?”

Clint blinks again, trying to center himself. “Yeah, babe?”

“Your shirt’s wet.”

Clint looks down and for the first time, he notices the large wine stain he must have inflicted on himself a few hours ago in a fit of depression drinking. The hours-old stain of pinot noir has blossomed along his shirt, filling out the beige fabric of his henley like a pool of blood, and he instantly feels embarrassed.

“Spilled some wine,” he says, trying to laugh off his mistake with a shake of his head. “Your dad’s pretty dumb and clumsy.”

Lila gives him that _look_ , the one he knows she’s inherited from Natasha even though Natasha had no hand in making her. She shakes her head back at him, picks up her sandwich, and starts to eat it. Clint leans back against the counter and watches her chew thoughtfully while Nate yells from upstairs.

“Auntie Nat made it better, right?”

Lila cringes and then swallows the mouthful of bread and cheese.

“Kinda, yeah.”

***

“I’m making a mistake,” Clint tells Natasha during a break at SHIELD. It’s the middle of April and they’re sitting on the roof in a sequestered area surrounded by _do not enter_ signs, the skyline of Manhattan stretching its arms lazily behind him.

“Pray tell, what mistake is that?”

“I mean, you know. With Laura.” He puts his hands on his cheeks, massaging them a little too hard. It’s a nervous habit, one that she knows well, which is why she reaches over and gently moves his fingers away from his face.

“You like her,” Natasha says in the most matter-of-fact voice he thinks she can manage. “She likes you. How are you making a mistake?”

“Really?” He looks over and sighs. “I’m damaged goods, Nat. I mean, it doesn’t matter with you.”

“Oh, right,” Natasha deadpans. “It doesn’t matter to me because I’m damaged goods, too.”

Clint groans. “I don’t mean it like that, and you know it.” He plays with his fingers, figuring she can’t get mad at him for doing that. “She’s normal. Nice. And I’m going to drag her into SHIELD...into us. What if I put her in danger? What if she hates the person I am when I’m at SHIELD? What if it’s too much?”

“I mean, it’s her decision too,” Natasha reminds him with a knowing look. “You told her what you did. You even showed her your bow. If she wanted to run for the hills, I think she would’ve done so by now. And I know you know that, so is there another reason you think you’re making a mistake?”

 _Yes_ , he wants to say as he meets her eyes, locking into where a curl of red has fallen across her forehead in a stubborn leap from its usual spot. He wants to kiss her. He wants to puts his mouth on her lips and he wants to fuck her right here, right now, right under everyone’s noses. He settles for reaching over and pushing the hair out of her face instead.

“I guess I’m just nervous.”

Natasha laughs, swatting his hand away. “Don’t be nervous. Even if you marry her, I’ll still be here. It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

“Promise?”

Natasha grins, and Clint grins back. It’s so easy to talk about death and dying because it’s a part of their job. It always has been. Close calls were as much a part of their life as eating and sleeping were. Over the years, they had learned to look death in the face and laugh at it. They _could_ laugh at it because they’d seen a lot, because death came close but it never actually happened.

And he never thought it actually _would_ happen.

And Natasha is dead.

***

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever tell Laura what those five years were _really_ like.

He knows he should. It’s never done him any good to keep secrets from people who cared about him. But when everything returned to normal, they were too busy dealing with the aftermath of the snap, and with their children, and with the state of the world, and with Natasha…

Anyway, Laura never asked and he never took the initiative to bring it up.

The night before he fucked off to Tokyo, he fucked Natasha. He showed up at Avengers Compound twenty-four hours after his family had turned to dust, exhausted from non-stop traveling and no food, and when she opened the door he was so relieved to see her that he almost kissed her right then and there.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

Natasha’s eyes were red-rimmed and her face was puffy but somehow, she still managed to smile.

“I’m happy you came.”

She took him in and held him in her arms while he broke down, then offered him a drink. He refused the whiskey, catching her free hand in his palm.

“I don’t want a drink,” he said, pressing the pads of her fingers against his tongue. “I want _this_.”

To her credit, she didn’t push away. She didn’t remind him that even though they didn’t exist anymore he _did_ still have a wife and children. She didn’t try to reprimand him for acting on a desire that they both knew was fueled by emotion and grief. She had welcomed his kisses, his touches, his soft whispers; she had taken them and accepted them as if they belonged to her and her alone. And when he reached for her pants and bra, she took them off herself, opening herself to him with all the consent she could offer.

The next morning, sunlight streaming into the bedroom and casting shadows on the rumpled sheets, everything seeming normal when he knew it wasn’t, she rolled over and kissed a scar on his chest.

“Are you going to tell her?”

She didn’t need to specify. He didn’t need to ask why she wanted to know.

He didn’t know what to say.

“Am I ever going to see her again?”

It’s not like she could’ve answered his question. But she also couldn’t refute it. Natasha put her head on his shoulder and sighed, her breath tickling his skin. Clint lay in the quiet, wondering why it took him over a fucking decade to break like this. He kicked himself for not going after her sooner. Maybe things would be different.

And Natasha is dead.

***

Laura comes to him when he’s getting dressed in the morning, while his kids are downstairs eating breakfast and arguing over who gets the last piece of burnt toast.

“Can we talk about it?”

_Can we talk about Natasha? About what she did?_

“We’ve talked about it,” Clint answers bluntly, pulling on a pair of ripped jeans and frowning at the dirt stains that are still present after a heavy wash.

Laura clears her throat. “No, we haven’t.” She pauses, picking up a pillow from the bed. She lets her fingers gloss over the stretchy fabric. “We can’t keep going like this.”

 _Like this._ Like sleepwalking through everyday life. Like having annoyed and frustrating arguments at night or early in the morning. Like putting on smiles for the kids to prove that everything’s okay when nothing’s okay.

“Do you want a divorce, then?”

He’s shocked at how bluntly the words come out, at the drollness behind them, asking the question like he’s asking if she wants milk in her coffee. Laura’s face crumples in confusion before hardening into anger.

“Is that really your only way out?”

It’s not, for so many reasons, a prime one being that if he was going to get divorced he might as well have done it after he slept with Natasha. Or after he gave her the arrow necklace, spinning a story about how he thought it might come in handy when they had to go undercover again when really, he just wanted her to have a piece of jewelry that was special and important to their relationship the same way his wedding ring was. Or after they fought for an entire two days over how to parent Cooper.

“I’m sorry,” Clint apologizes softly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I just...I don’t think I can talk about it, okay?”

Laura looks sad, dropping the pillow on the bed. “You’re going to have to talk about it at some point,” she says, using the voice that makes it known she’s done with him. “So I need you to at least try. Otherwise, we’re going to have to start making some very real changes around here.”

The unspoken danger behind her words isn’t lost on him and he thinks that maybe the worst thing in the world right now would be losing his entire family for the second time _and_ not having Natasha. Not in reality, anyway.

So they try. Clint pours himself into housework the same way he did after he was mind controlled by Loki, and he tries to keep himself busy so that he can’t think about Natasha or pretend to see her when he’s bored.

Cooper deals in his own way, playing rap music too loudly, a defiant show of _nothing is okay right now but I don’t want to talk about it either._ Lila says she’s fine but Clint knows she’s not, so every night after he reads her a story he makes sure to stay after she’s fallen asleep, just because he knows she needs the extra comfort. Nate is still too little to understand anything that’s happened, so he just keeps asking when Auntie Nat is coming back. Lila and Cooper don’t bother to ask their parents why they’re still pretending, but Clint knows at some point they’re going to have to stop making up answers and start dealing with the real truth.

Laura makes bread by the dozen. It seems that every moment that she’s not corralling the kids or putting them to bed or doing chores she’s in the kitchen, kneading dough, up to her elbows in flour and yeast. Clint thinks about making a joke the way he probably would have before all this happened, but one day he catches her crying into her sourdough starter and decides against being a cheeky asshole.

***

In his dreams, Clint replays one simple memory. It’s a memory he wasn’t even there for but he knows how it went down, because Natasha had told him and he can still imagine it so clearly.

“Where is he?” Laura asks when Natasha comes through the door. It’s five days after the Battle of New York, five days after his mind has been wiped by Loki and then reinstated by Natasha, and Natasha has gone to the farm alone because she’s determined he’s in no state to see his family.

Natasha hesitates for half a second, maybe more. “Safe.”

“Safe,” Laura spits out, because she can tell that’s only half the truth. “Fuck all, Nat. What’s going on?”

Natasha flinches, because the amount of times Laura swears can be counted on the fingers of one hand. “He’s...he was compromised. But don’t worry, he’ll be fine.”

He remembers Natasha telling him that she didn’t know if Laura wanted to yell or cry. He remembers her telling him that for a singular moment, maybe the only moment in her entire life, she could tell Laura was considering backhanding Natasha across the face.

In his dream, Laura turns around and walks into the kitchen. Natasha follows, but she refuses to acknowledge her.

“Laura -- _Laura_.”

“ _What_?” Laura finally turns, dark hair whipping over her shoulder. “What? Are you going to tell me that this is normal, that this is what I signed up for? Because it’s not, Natasha! None of this is normal! Fuck SHIELD, fuck Fury, fuck the Avengers!”

 _Fuck you_ , but she’d never say it -- to him or to Natasha. Clint wonders if he’s deserved that grace for all these years, especially during the moments when he’d lie awake next to Natasha thinking about what it would feel like to put his mouth on her body without a guilty follow-up thought.

Natasha stays silent for a long time. “You’re upset,” she says carefully, as if she’s trying to figure out the emotions of someone she doesn’t know.

Laura laughs coldly. “Of course I’m upset.”

“And you have every right to be,” Natasha acknowledges. “But I promise that I’m going to take care of him. And I’ll bring him home. Okay?”

She had, after all, taken care of him. And then she’d brought him home. He doesn’t remember much, because the time after Loki felt like a month of a comedown after a bad acid trip. All he knew is that whenever he broke, whenever he yelled, whenever he shouted, Natasha was there. She caught him, soothed him, medicated him, and if she ever judged him for his thoughts or actions or feelings, she never said anything.

It wasn’t the way he would’ve chosen to have her repay the favor of not judging her and taking her in all those years ago, but debts were debts. And for better or for worse, like vows during marriage, she’d decided this debt was hers to owe.

He wakes up feeling sad and turns over, pressing his face into the pillow. The bedside clock reads three in the morning and he tries to go back to sleep.

It’s not the best dream, but it’s better than dreaming of Vormir, so he’ll take it.

***

Sometimes, she shows up in the most unlikely of places -- like in the bathroom, when he’s getting out of the shower.

_Hey, stranger._

He steps out of the tub and sees her sitting on the edge of the sink with her legs pulled up tight against her chest. She has a smug look gracing her face, like she can’t believe he hasn’t realized she’d be sitting here.

“Hey yourself.”

Natasha smirks, one corner of her mouth lifting in a half-moon. _Is that a dick attached to you, or are you just happy to see me?_

Clint hasn’t even realized he’s hard, but now that she’s said something, he can’t ignore the uncomfortable yet welcome sensation. He groans, slumping against the tiled wall.

“Even when you’re dead, you manage to turn me on. What the hell kind of superpower is that?”

Natasha laughs. _Your own_ , she replies smugly. Before Clint has a chance to react, she hops off the counter. _This is your mind. Don’t you ever wonder why I come to you when one of us is naked or vulnerable?_

“Yeah, I know.” Clint sighs, reaching for a towel. “I’ve read the books. I’m not dumb.”

 _No, you’re just stubborn_ , Natasha replies, eying him up and down. _How’s that avoidance going, by the way? Still haven’t talked to Laura about it?_

“About what?” Clint asks sarcastically, wiping down his legs and arms. “The fact that we fucked five years ago or the fact that we still can’t talk about your death?”

 _You know which one I mean_ , Natasha answers wisely, with just a hint of caution. _God, you’re such a mess._

“Look, I’m trying,” Clint responds testily. “ _We’re_ trying. Do you know how much fucking bread I’ve had to eat in the past three weeks? I’m about to launch a protest against sourdough.”

 _Hmmm_ , Natasha intones, almost as if she hasn’t heard him. _I don’t think you’re trying hard enough._

“And how the hell do you figure that?”

Natasha winks, nodding towards his lower extremities. _You’re still seeing me, aren’t you?_

“Yeah, well.” Clint sits down on the toilet seat, spreading his legs. His erection is still there, but it’s waning slightly. “Maybe I _want_ to see you. Maybe I miss you and I’m never going to see you again. Is it too much to ask for you to show up here?”

 _No_ , Natasha answers playfully. _You can’t fuck a ghost, though. We’re not in an episode of Grey’s Anatomy._

“Thanks for the reminder,” Clint shoots back. “You know, ghost sex was really high on my list of depression to-dos.”

Before she can answer, Cooper yells from downstairs. When he gets his concentration back, Natasha is gone and he’s alone in the bathroom. The only sound is the fan whirring above him and his children talking loudly downstairs, and the cold air raises goosebumps on his bare skin.

***

“What do you think?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?” Natasha asks as she gets out of the rental car. She peers up at the house in front of her, taking in the sprawling, two-story farm and its many bells and whistles that Clint notices include, but are not limited to, a large barn, a worn tractor, a few oak trees, and some abandoned workbenches.

“I mean, yeah, it needs some fixing up,” Clint agrees, nodding at the overhang where the pale grey paint is peeling. “But it’ll give me something to do when I’m not on assignment.”

“It’s nice,” Natasha says with a shrug. “Looks big. Where’s my bedroom?”

Clint’s taken aback by her comment. “Your bedroom?”

“Yes,” Natasha answers slowly, each letter of the word drawn out and emphasized as if she’s trying to talk to a toddler. “My bedroom. You know, so I can visit and annoy you and occasionally tell you how many bad dad jokes you’re making?”

At that point, Clint hadn’t actually considered having a separate bedroom for Natasha. He’d wrestled with the thought and had wanted to bring it up, but in the end, he was worried he’d overstep -- that asking his partner and best friend to essentially bunk over in a house that was supposed to be for him and his wife and the potential family he hoped to build would be crossing way too many lines.

In the end though, Laura had been more than fine with allowing Natasha to build a designated space in their home, giving her blessing over takeout chinese.

“She’s your partner, and she’s a part of your life, right?” Laura had asked while twirling lo mein around her fork. “Which means she’ll probably be a part of our children’s lives. I think you really want her here and if you’re okay with it, so am I.”

Out of all the years that Clint brought Natasha to the farm, he’d only slipped once. They arrived home at five in the morning and Laura had been up waiting because she couldn’t sleep. But once Clint came through the door and once she’d checked and made sure he was still somewhat alive, she had passed out on the couch. Clint had followed Natasha to her room just to make sure she was okay and before he left, he had instinctively leaned over to kiss her.

He’ll never know what would’ve happened if she hadn’t pushed him away, a small signal that told him even if making a move _was_ okay by her standards, this was far from the right time. But he felt guilty enough that afterwards, he kept his thoughts to himself anytime they were together at the farm, even if it meant he had to do a lot of jerking off in the shower. _That_ he felt less guilty about. He knew Laura had celebrity crushes and even a top 5 list and besides, it’s not like he was _actually_ fucking Natasha. He was just thinking about fucking her.

At the time, it seemed like a respectable arrangement -- a way to placate him and still keep himself loyal. Now, purple-tainted planets still fresh in his mind, it only adds to the list of things he wishes he’d done differently.

***

He’ll tell Laura that he needs to work late because he has to finish some renovations. He doesn’t know whether she believes him but in any case -- maybe because she’s realizing she should take any kind of sleep she can get or because she doesn’t want to start another argument -- she’s smart enough to leave him to his own devices.

He makes sure it’s late enough that Lila won’t wake up with a bad dream or Nate won’t wake up asking for another glass of water or Laura won’t be curious enough to wander downstairs and ask when he’s coming to bed. Then he quietly removes a bottle of Johnny Walker Black from the liquor cabinet and sits on the front porch with his feet up on the rails.

She usually comes after the third shot, leaning against the porch frame.

 _Drinking_ , Natasha says, ticking off the word on her right index finger. _Hiding secrets, lying. Three things that make up denial and depression._

“Is a fourth thing seeing ghosts?” Clint asks. “Extra points if they’re non-fuckable ghosts?”

Natasha laughs, her lips widening into a genuine grin. _That depends on who you’re asking._ She walks up the steps and sits down next to him, looking up at the dusty, starry sky. _What are you afraid of, Clint?_

“Do I have to answer the question?”

 _Well._ Natasha puts her chin in her hands. _If you want to keep seeing me, you probably should._

“Yeah, see, here’s the thing.” Clint leans forward and downs another shot. “I’ve seen the movies. I know that as soon as I admit something’s wrong or find some sort of fucking peace, you disappear. Because I’ve exorcised whatever demon is keeping you here, and I’ve moved on.”

 _So you’re going to pretend that nothing’s wrong, destroy your marriage, cause your kids to grow up with more issues than just disappearing for five years, all because you don’t want to lose me?_ Natasha asks dubiously. _That’s kinda selfish._

“Selfish -- excuse me?” Clint turns abruptly in his chair. “I’m _selfish_? Who threw themselves off a cliff because they assumed I’d be fine just because I might get my family back? Who assumed I’d always be too loyal to fuck them when I could’ve been with you a thousand times over if I wanted to?” He instantly realizes what he’s said, how his angry words have settled into the otherwise silent night, the fact that he’s arguing with a goddamn _ghost_ , and his eyes burn.

“Shit,” he mutters, taking another drink. In a blurry haze that follows, he struggles to find Natasha, who is now standing in front of him and shooting daggers from her eyes. “I shouldn’t have -- I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean that.” He swallows down tears. “It’s just...this is really hard, okay? I really fucking miss you.”

For once, he’s not the one that pulls himself out of his thoughts. For once, it’s her that disappears before he’s ready. He stays outside until the sun starts to come up, until the world starts to awaken once more and the roosters crow in the distance and Laura starts to toss and turn in the warm bed upstairs.

And Natasha is dead.

***

Clint brings Lila to the dentist, because even after a global snap that lasted five years, kids apparently still get cavities from eating too much sugar. While he’s in the waiting room, he takes out his phone and googles _is seeing ghosts after someone has died a sign of insanity?_

The responses vary from “seeing dead people is perfectly normal” to stories about dead animals returning to their owners to medical explanations to yes, definitely, hallucinations are signs of a mental disorder. As he mindlessly scrolls, he realizes he doesn’t really even know what he’s hoping to find. Proof that he’s crazy? Ways to stop seeing her? Validation that he’s not the only one experiencing what feels like a slow burn mental breakdown?

A few days later, he’s in the middle of helping Cooper with his math homework when Laura returns from a trip to the grocery store.

“Hey, work on those fractions,” Clint says after he notices the way Laura’s holding herself after she drops a few canvas bags on the floor. “I just gotta help mom for a sec.”

Cooper mutters something under his breath but grudgingly turns a page in his workbook, pressing his pencil moodily against the graph paper. Clint puts away some of the food that needs instant refrigeration, leaving the rest on the floor and wandering into the living room where Lila and Nate are reading. He hears Laura walking back and forth upstairs -- probably pacing, probably upset, probably lost in thought. They were two sides of the same coin these days but because he couldn’t get over his own goddamn selfishness and admit that this was too hard, because he couldn’t deal with the fact that discussing Natasha’s death meant he had to make it more real than letting go of her slippery fingers, they were suffering separately -- two broken pieces trying to figure out how to come back together and not knowing if they ever could.

“Hey,” he says, keeping his voice neutral as he climbs the stairs and approaches the bedroom. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Laura says shortly. She’s staring out the window that overlooks the large landscaped yard and when she closes her eyes, Clint can see the tension she’s trying to let go of.

“I mean...I know you’re not,” he continues. “If you wanna talk, we can talk. Or I can take care of dinner so you can sleep or something.”

Laura’s eyes snap open and she clenches her teeth together. “Can I just have one goddamn bad day, Clint? Because you get several, every single week.”

“Okay, that’s not fair,” he counters, even though he knows she’s right. “I’m just trying to help.”

“And I have been trying to help for _months_ ,” Laura snaps. “So unless you’re going to break it down for me right now, you need to leave me alone before you get an earful.”

“Fine,” Clint snaps back, unable to keep the bite out of his voice. “I’ll leave you alone and you can go make some goddamn bread. God knows you’re probably due for a new blueberry recipe or something.” He turns to leave and hears Laura huff behind him, and the sound is enough to make him stop in his tracks.

“You know, you think it’s so damn easy to just _deal_ with it,” Clint starts, clenching his fists together to keep himself from exploding. “But I was the last thing she saw before she died. It was just me and her, alone on that goddamn cliff in the middle of fucking space. She was always alone.” He thinks of Tokyo, of five years wasted, of the decades he spent depriving her of an intimate touch from someone who truly loved her because he was too afraid and because they knew they just couldn’t make it work. “She _died_ _alone_.”

He puts his hand on the doorknob and tries to ready his game face so that when he gets into the hallway, he can easily shift back into dad mode. He’s almost out the door when Laura’s voice stops him, a quiet intone just as emotion-filled as his outburst.

“She was never alone. She always had you.”

***

“Tell me this isn’t because we slept together,” Natasha says when she finds him packing up his bag after breakfast. She’s wearing shorts that ride up her thighs, a thin tank top, and no bra. Clint can’t help but smile at the sight of her because everything about this post-sex morning feels so normal and so natural. Like they were always meant to be like this -- comfortable with each other’s skin, comfortable _in_ each other’s skin.

“It’s not,” Clint answers honestly, zipping his duffel. “I’d sleep with you again if I could.”

“So what’s stopping you?” She indicates an otherwise empty building and Clint sighs.

“I dunno. I just need to just get out of here for a bit. If I stay in one place for too long, I’ll go crazy.”

“Mmmm.” Natasha leans against the wall and nibbles the skin surrounding her thumb. He doesn’t know whether she’s trying to turn him on or just screw with him, but he does find the action incredibly sexy. “You sure?”

“No.” Clint stands up, dusting off his pants. “But I mean, who knows how long this is gonna last?” He looks around and then offers her a small crooked smile. “You could come with me. Just for a little bit. It’ll be like the old days. Bonnie and Clyde, Barton and Romanoff. We could be a real team. Go back to our assassin roots, before all this SHIELD stuff.”

“Life on the run in the middle of what might be a global tragedy?” Natasha asks. “I’ve lived on the edge before, thanks. I’ve also been homeless. I think I’ll pass.” She cracks a small smile back. “At least I have ramen here.”

“Suit yourself.” He walks over and bends down until their noses touch. He traces one hand along the curve of her jaw, and Natasha swallows quietly.

“Just...don’t be a stranger.”

“I could never,” Clint says, fingering the arrow necklace she had put on after they woke up. “Besides, you’ll always know where to find me. I’ll send out a bat signal.”

He wants to kiss her again. He wants to take her up on her offer and fuck her at least once more before he leaves, but he knows if he does he might not leave at all. He settles for kissing her on the forehead and then gathers his gear, slinging his duffel over his shoulder.

“Wait,” Natasha calls as he starts to walk towards the door. She picks up his recurve, which is lying on the table. “You’re not bringing your bow?”

Clint stares at the weapon, trying to see what has always made him feel calm and competent. Instead, he sees Loki. He sees Lila disappearing before his eyes. He sees an underwater prison.

“Keep it,” he says finally, trying to ignore her surprised look. “It’s safer here. And I don’t wanna do anything rash.”

She didn’t stop him, because she trusted him. Maybe it was for the best, because he lost track of time after that. Cities blurred into the same dizzying locations, days turned into anger-filled weeks, and rage and guilt took over his brain. Nothing really made sense anymore until she slipped a wet gloved hand into his in the middle of a blood-drenched street and reminded him that it had been five years since they’d touched.

When he had said _don’t give me hope_ he was referring to his family, but he was also referring to her. To second chances. To what he couldn’t have when he wanted it the most, and now it was too late.

When she said, _I’m sorry I couldn’t give it to you sooner_ , he knew she understood.

***

Laura announces she’s taking some time to herself after dinner, citing paperwork and getting behind on bills. Clint sees right through her excuses but at least he doesn’t make a crack about baking. Instead, he steps up and puts his children to bed and then washes up in the bathroom, debating whether he wants to make it an early night.

He does a double take when he opens the bedroom door and sees Natasha sprawled out over his covers. She’s fully clothed this time, but her t-shirt and jeans are fitted in a way that subtly shows off every curve and every muscle.

“Thought you stopped coming.”

 _I thought about it_ , Natasha answers, craning her neck to look up at him. _But that would’ve been mean. I don’t think you deserve that._

“I think I do,” he says, remembering their argument and his most recent one with Laura. Natasha gives him a sad smile.

_You’ve always been so hard on yourself._

“I know.” He sits down next to her. “So you’re just here to torture me?”

 _Only you would think of this as torture_ , Natasha points out _. You can’t even have a ghost visit you without getting moody. Have you considered therapy?_

“Uh.” Clint struggles for a way to deflect the question without sounding obvious. “I think the whole _world_ needs therapy right now.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. Clint leans back on the bed, letting his body fall comfortably next to hers. It’s dangerous to do this here because even though Laura’s probably good for another few hours, he knows there’s nothing stopping her from coming back into the bedroom and seeing him talk to an invisible person.

“I think I have to let you go.”

 _Pity_ , Natasha says. She props her head up with the help of her elbow. _You know that’s a lie. You don’t have to let me go._

“Come on,” Clint complains, throwing his hands up over his head. “Last time we talked, you literally told me I needed to accept my loss and get over you.”

 _Okay, first of all, I didn’t say it quite that bluntly_ , Natasha says in exasperation. _Second of all, since when does accepting your issues mean that you have to totally forget about someone?_

“Uh, since you’re me,” Clint says. “I’m moody and selfish, remember?”

Natasha laughs, rolling over on her stomach. _You watch way too many movies._

If Clint had his way, he thinks this is how he’d want to remember her -- slightly messy hair, eyes crinkled in clear delight, mouth half open in an easy smile, face free of wrinkles and scars and years of torment and pain. He leans over to kiss her and while he’s aware he’s kissing air, it makes him feel better. He thinks he feels her smile against his lips.

“You know,” he says as he pulls away, “we could’ve been something.”

 _We could’ve_ , Natasha echoes. _It’s not your fault we weren’t._

“Well, you wouldn’t let me.”

Natasha raises her arms above her head, allowing her shirt to ride up her ribcage. _I would’ve let you_ , she admits. _But I think we both know it was more complicated than that._

It was, because it was divorce. It was a break of trust, it was picnics in the middle of summer, it was children who clung desperately to Auntie Nat’s legs so she wouldn’t leave before the weekend was over. It was a life with weapons and secrets and a life with pancakes and birdhouses and homemade wrapped presents under the Christmas tree.

“At least we tried,” he says at the same time that Natasha leans over to kiss his cheek, her lips parting in a gentle grin.

“At least I was loved.”

***

One week later, Laura is setting up a board game with Lila and Nate. Cooper is outside gathering twigs for the bonfire they’re planning to make later and Clint sits on the couch, watching Laura remove Monopoly playing pieces from tiny plastic bags.

“I was thinking,” Clint says, as Lila studies the detail on the tiny metal shoe. “We never had a funeral for Auntie Nat. Maybe we should have one.”

LIla looks up, dropping the show in her lap. “A real one?” she asks curiously. Clint catches Laura’s eye and nods.

“Yeah.” He purses his lips, gesturing towards the window. “Maybe we can say a few things, go down by the lake, do a little ceremony. We’ll make grilled cheese on the stove and you can pick some flowers from the store. We can put it on her stone here and also build her a little something somewhere else.” He reaches forward, putting a hand on her head, letting his fingers brush through her tangled hair. “Do you think that’s okay?”

Lila nods slowly. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “That’s okay.”

It’s not much, but it’s a start. He knows, because Laura lets out a long breath, and the air suddenly feels lighter. Clint picks up another game piece and presses it between his fingers while Lila grabs for the dice, and he tries to concentrate on _here_ and _now_.

Behind him, Natasha places one hand on his shoulder, and he smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> So...hi! I've missed being here, I've missed writing, and I've missed these guys. Life has taken a bunch of turns since last year (new job, new baby, new projects, the general state of the world...) which is basically why I haven't had a chance to write even though I've been trying to get some new fics done, but I have some new stuff planned so I hope you're still ready to read a lot of angsty feelings. :) I appreciate everyone who has stuck around and if you're new to my stuff, I hope you enjoy the ride!


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